


Friend

by yukiawison



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Gen, M/M, Thomas Barrow is good and I am weak, and doesn't totally make sense with the timeline but yolo im garbage, dorky gay kiddo George Crawley, this is super self indulgent yall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-01-30 05:06:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12646704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yukiawison/pseuds/yukiawison
Summary: Thomas Barrow is George Crawley's best friend, even if he is only his butler.(In which Thomas Barrow looks out for this kiddo.)





	1. School

**Author's Note:**

> It's day 5 of fic-vember! This is super old sorry! Also I'm assuming that everyone still works at Downton when George is 15 which is probably not accurate but lol here it is anyway.

"Mr. Barrow?"

Thomas looked up from the letter he was writing to see young George Crawley hovering in the doorway. His presence downstairs had diminished slightly as he'd grown older, but he never looked this nervous in front of his favorite butler.

"Yes Master George? How can I help you?"

"Can I come in?" His blonde hair was in his eyes.

"There's no need to ask," Thomas said warmly.

George seemed to calm a bit and sat in the chair across from Mr. Barrow. He'd rather grown into himself over the years, long and lean like his mother, bright eyed and kind like his father, and aching for adventure like his step-father.

"I go away to school tomorrow," he said. Lady Mary had decided that boarding school was the best option for her son, though he protested that he could do just as well at the school house. But it wouldn't be proper.

"Nerves, Master George?"

He nodded, slightly. "What if they don't like me Mr. Barrow? What if I don't make any friends?"

"Well you've always got one friend right here," he said. "And why wouldn't they like you? Everyone at Downton loves you."

George looked to the floor. "I don't think I've had many real friends, just the people who have to be out of courtesy or blood."

Thomas Barrow had had few true friends in his life, and he was thankful for each one. "Master George just because you have had few friends doesn't mean they aren't special. I've never had many friends--many in this house didn't like me when I first came to Downton--but I found my place, and I found my people."

"You're my friend Mr. Barrow."

"Thank you Master George. You are my friend too."

His face brightened. "Will you write then? When I'm away at school? Mama promises she will but she never knows what's going on downstairs."

Thomas couldn't help but smile at this obliviously cheerful 15 year old. He had no idea the absurdity of his request, or the mingling of social classes he was endorsing. To George Crawley people were people and his friends were his friends, no matter which level of the house they occupied.

"If you would like that sir, of course I will."

"Mama will be wondering where I am," he said, checking his watch. "Good night Mr. Barrow, and thank you."

"Any time Master George."

He left quickly up the stairs and back into his world.

"Was that Master George?" Anna said as she passed Thomas in the hall. "He's after you again?" She smiled.

There had been jokes, good natured ones, Thomas made sure of that, that George fancied  Barrow before he knew what that meant and the many reasons it was inadvisable. It arose primarily from all the time he spent hiding in the servants’ hall, and how he'd blushed and stuttered every time Barrow asked him a question. It was cute and it was innocent and no one minded too much downstairs, but Barrow rather hoped he'd grow out of it, and find someone his own age to trot after like a lovesick puppy, preferably a girl. Life was difficult for people like Thomas Barrow, and he didn't wish his plight on young George.

"You nearly missed tea," Sybbie Branson chastised. She took in the sight of her cousin, eyes bright, face flushed from running full speed up the stairs. She was only a year older than him, but she liked to pretend she was older.

"I was asking Mr. Barrow if he would write me when I'm away at school."

"You want Barrow to write you?"

"He's my friend, why shouldn't he write to me?" He said, somewhat defensively.

"I'm your friend and you didn't ask me," she pouted.

"You're my cousin, I didn't think you needed to be asked."

"Well you know what happens when you assume," she said, voice laced with snark.

"What is that Sybbie?" Her father asked, with disapproving eyes. He took the cup of tea he was handed and sat down across from the two squirming teens.

"Nothing Papa," she said sheepishly.

"And will you write to cousin George?" Tom asked his daughter.

"Of course I will," she said definitively, crossing her ankles beneath her green dress.

"You'll miss me terribly?" He teased. Tom laughed.

"I'm sure you'll enjoy school George. You'll meet lots of new people who aren't connected to Downton."

Everyone in George's life so far seemed to be connected to Downton is some way. The notion of a world beyond the gates was unnerving.

"I'll be back for holidays Sybbie, don't worry. I'll always be back for holidays."

"Well of course you will darling, we're not trying to be rid of you," his mother came in, the babbling Charles Talbot Crawley in her arms. She gave the toddler to Sybbie and took a seat beside Tom.

He enjoyed his last tea before he was off to school, and Mrs. Patmore made him his favorite dinner to have before he went. And he hugged Mr. Barrow goodbye even though he was far too old to do so before Tom drove him to the station.

"Good luck Master George," he said.

"Thank you Mr. Barrow. I'll write."

***

16 September 1936

Dear Mr. Barrow,

We started our lessons yesterday. The first week was spent touring the school and learning the rules and about each other. I miss Downton already, though I will soon get used to life here.

The food here is nothing like Mrs. Patmore's but the tea isn't bad and sometimes they make pudding for special occasions (or so I've heard.)

I have to wear a uniform with a little blue tie and a blazer with the school crest on it. They yell if you don't iron your uniform (they make you do it yourself) and if your socks aren't the right color. This boy Ernest in my class didn't wear his tie one day and he got beat about the ears in front of everyone. He didn't seem too bothered though. He's sort of a troublemaker.

I've told some of the boys about Sybbie and they all want to see her picture. There's a duke's son who's convinced he'll marry her.

I like my history lessons. My teacher reminds me of Mr. Molesley down at the schoolhouse. Do you think he could ever teach at a school like this?

I hope you and everyone home at Downton are well.

Best wishes,

George Crawley

"May I see?" Baxter asked as Thomas set down the letter. "I'd like to see what he's up to."

Thomas handed the letter over, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "I don't know why he insisted on writing to me."

Baxter smiled down at the letter.

"Like Mr. Molesley he says, what a compliment."

18 September 1936

Dear Master George,

Everyone downstairs wishes you well and says hello. Might I suggest ironing your uniform with a damp cloth over the top of it to steam the garment. I'm not sure how I would fare in your history lessons but I know I could wear an immaculate uniform. My time as a valet has not taught me nothing.

I hope you are making friends, even if the dominant topic of conversation is Miss Sybbie.

There is nothing much changed here. Your cousin brought out the old gramophone and has been practicing her dancing for her coming out party. She knows it is too early, but no less is enjoying the practice.

Lady Rose and her husband have come to visit. He has some business in London and they are staying the week before they return to America.

We look forward to seeing you on your holiday.

Best,

Thomas Barrow

"Hey George?" Ernest had the bunk above George's and he could hear him rustling around above him.

"Who sends you letters from home? Do you have a big family?"

"Sort of," he replied. It was larger than some, even more so if he included everyone downstairs, and he did. "My Mama and Papa do, and Mr. Barrow."

"Mr. Barrow?" It was strange not being able to see his face.

"Our butler, he's my friend."

"You're friends with your butler?" The utterance was not quite a sneer, but not quite an expression of genuine curiosity.

"Yes, and he writes me. Who writes you?"

Ernest was silent for a moment and George thought he had fallen asleep. "I don't get many letters," he said at last. "My Mama is sick and Father...well he's too busy to write."

"I'm sorry," George replied. "I'd write you if I were them."

The other boy poked his head over the side of the bed to look down at George. His brown hair flopped in his face, and his green eyes caught the light. "Thanks George," he said.

3 October 1936

Dear Mr. Barrow,

I've made a friend. His name is Ernest and he makes good grades even though he likes to pretend he doesn't. We play chess in the dining hall in the evenings and he tells me about his life at home and I tell him about Downton.

His father is a business man in America and he hardly comes home to him and his mother Lady Victoria Barnett.

We've decided to go out for the track team, though mostly upperclassmen are allowed to run for the meets.

My teacher says I'm at the top of my class in English, and my history teacher gave me good marks on my latest exam. Ernest is helping me with arithmetic. I don't know quite why I'm telling you this. You're not Mama so you can't brag to Aunt Edith. But I know you value hard work so I thought I ought to let you know I'm doing well.

Thank you for the tip about ironing. Tell Sybbie to quit stalling and write to me, and that I want a dance when I get back.

Your friend,

George Crawley

5 October 1936

Dear Master George,

I'm glad you've made a friend. I shall be glad to meet him if you ever bring him to Downton. You will be back here soon for your holiday. Everyone downstairs, and upstairs, is preparing for your visit as I'm sure you've heard. Miss Sybbie is perhaps the most excited.

I am impressed with you as always in regards to your schoolwork. Hard work should be valued and rewarded.

Dinner is about ready and I have to ring the gong. I look forward to your return.

Best,

Thomas Barrow

"I'm going home today," George said, lingering in the doorway to his and Ernest's room. "Are you going back for holiday?"

He shook his head. "Father's stuck in America and Mama's too sick to see me. I'll see when you get back though."

George's heart clenched. "Can I have a hug goodbye at least?" He asked quietly. Ernest flushed, George ignored this.

"'Course," he muttered, and George could feel his own neck getting hot as he embraced his friend. It was nothing, it was hot in the room, nothing more.

"George!" Sybbie Branson threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. "You're home."

"Miss me?"

"Desperately," she said with an eye roll, but her enthusiastic hug seemed to betray her.

"Has young mister Crawley come down today?" Anna asked as Thomas passed her on the way to the servant's hall.

"Miss Sybbie and Lady Mary seem to monopolizing his time at the moment. I'm sure he'll be down after dinner."

She smiled knowingly. "That boy really looks up to you."

"God only knows why," he muttered.

She frowned. "Oh Mr. Barrow don't sell yourself short. You've done terribly well these past few years."

"That's kind of you," he said noncommittally.

"Mr. Barrow," George was at his door again. He'd shot up like a firework and was leaner and more muscular and perhaps even more blonde than the last time he'd seen him. And he looked happy, and full of something that was far from Downton. "I suppose you'll want to shake my hand now that I'm a proper schoolboy." He crossed his arms smugly and Thomas smirked. "But I'm going to hug you anyway."

He did and Thomas couldn't help but laugh at this boy who was somehow so fond of him.

"Mr. Barrow will you teach me to dance now that I'm back?"

"Why Master George you could ask Miss Sybbie. I'm sure she could teach you to..."

"I have two left feet. I don't want her to laugh," he replied. Plus I'd rather dance with you, he didn't add.

"Very well."

The next day they were up in the ballroom.

"The first thing you need to remember is to look at your partner, not at your feet, even if you're sure you're going to make a mistake." George's head shot up.

"Now listen to the music and I'll lead. Then we can switch so you'll know how to dance with a lady."

What if I don't want to dance with a lady? He thought. What if I want to dance with Ernest?

He nodded, and the music brought his attention back to trying not to step on Barrow's feet. He had little success in the endeavor.

"I'm sorry Mr. Barrow," he moaned after the third time. "I really am trying."

"It's confidence Master George. Half of dancing is confidence."

"How do you get to be so confident?" He asked.

It was Thomas's turn to look down. "When you have enough people against you and telling you no no matter what you do, you learn to ignore it."

"Ignore what?"

Thomas met his eyes. "Your doubts. If you stay true to who you are it overshadows everything that makes you afraid."

It occurred to George Crawley that he didn't really know Barrow at all. Every time they spoke it was about him.

"Mr. Barrow have you ever been in love?"

He didn't want to lie to him, not when he'd just told him to be true to himself.

"Yes, a long time ago," he said.

"Who was she?"

"George..." His lack of formality caused him to draw back and listen.

"His name was James. He was a footman here before you were born. He didn't love me like I loved him, but he was my friend. I don't want to lie to you. I must be who I am, regardless of the law."

George was bright red. "So you...and other men...you...I um."

"You don't have to say anything Master George, and I understand if you want to keep your distance from now on..."

"No, I...it's not...I wouldn't do that."

"The house knows, so don't worry that I'm giving you a secret to keep."

The house knows, and they don't care. Something tightened in George's chest.

He turned the music off. "You'll fall in love someday Master George. I have no doubt."

He laid awake that night thinking about it, what it would be like to fall in love with a man. What would it be like to kiss a man? It wouldn't be as soft as with a girl. He thought about Ernest and what it would be like to love him as more than a friend.


	2. War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George grows up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, I finally finished this. Sorry it took forever and sorry in advance for my minimal WWII research.

"Do you want a smoke?" Ernest had grown a bit of stubble in his second year of school, and the picture of him in the drizzling gray day was that of an utter delinquent.

"Alright," he replied, extending a hand. Barrow smoked, why couldn't he?

He coughed after his first drag, and Ernest laughed at him, a joyous laugh, rough from the cigarettes.

"Sod off," he choked through the smoke. Ernest dropped his cigarette butt and gently took George's from him.

"Hey, just because I'm not some rebel..." But Ernest cut him off with a kiss, right on the lips. He tasted like smoke. And something was bubbling up in George that created an impulsive hand around the small of Ernest's back. He kissed him back. He wasn't quite sure why he did it, or what he was even thinking in the light headed haze of tobacco and his best friend's lips.

He broke away. Ernest's eyes were trained on the ground. "Look George I..."

George leaned in and pressed another kiss to the side of his mouth. "It's okay, you don't have to say anything. Just kiss me again."

He did, and the drizzle turned to a downpour and they both came in soaking wet and late to class and breathing heavy with the widest grins the school had ever seen.

10 December 1937

Dear Mr. Barrow,

I think I'm like you. If I am it doesn't seem to be the thing to write you in a letter. It doesn't seem to be the thing to write you at all. It's certainly not the smart option, but I've always been a fool.

I feel like I'm falling, or like I'm flying I'm not sure which. I thought I was confused before, but now everything seems clear. I don't feel like my brain is muddled up any longer.

I can't explain it, not without having you there in front of me so I can see if you understand. But of course you understand because you're like me.

Yours,

George Crawley

George invited Ernest to Downton for Christmas. His family wouldn't take him and George made a very compelling argument to his mother.

He was perfectly well mannered in front of George's relations, and few could miss the sort of glowing look George always seemed to give him.

"Mr. Barrow I want you to meet Ernest. Ernest Barnett this is Mr. Thomas Barrow, our butler," Thomas gave George's friend a polite nod.

"It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Barnett. You seem to be all he talks about in his letters."

George looked extremely embarrassed so Barrow had clearly done his job.

"I'm very pleased to meet you too Mr. Barrow," Ernest said with a glance over to George. "I'm sure you have plenty of stories about Georgie when he was little."

"Oh of course I..."

"That's enough both of you," George cut in, ears scarlet.

Christmas at Downton was lovely as it always was. There was a great big tree in the drawing room, and Sybbie brought out the gramophone once more so everyone could dance. She even took a turn with George who managed to only step on her feet once.

The house had plenty of places to hide and kiss Ernest until his heart felt all twisted out of shape with feeling.

One night when they were both a little tipsy from stolen eggnog and hungry because dinner had been hours before, they snuck down to the kitchen.

"What do you know how to make?" Ernest whispered.

"Scrambled eggs. You?"

"Pancakes, looks like breakfast it is."

They worked in between bouts of giggling, and kissing pressed up against the shelves, and George looped his arms around Ernest's waist as he flipped the pancakes.

"Daisy I wanted to remind you to..." A very tired looking Barrow hurried into the kitchen and then froze.

"George," he was too shocked to address him formally. "What are you doing here?"

He shot away from Ernest but the damage was done. "Nothing, we were hungry. I'm sorry Barrow."

He couldn't keep the sheepish look off his face when he saw Barrow the next morning at their real breakfast.

"He's not going to say anything is he?" Ernest asked once the rest of the household had gone off to their respective jobs and activities.

"No, he wouldn't do that. Don't worry."

George worried though, and he paced in front of the staircase nervously, trying to figure out whether or not to go down.

"Mr. Crawley?" Anna appeared at his side. "Do you need something?"

"I, um..." Her eyes flickered with understanding.

"He can never be angry with you long Master George. You should go down and see him."

"Thank you Anna."

"You're welcome. Now go on," she smiled, ushering him down the stairs.

Downstairs seemed to be the most comforting place of his childhood. There was the servant's hall where he'd doze off at the table listening to one of the footmen play piano. He walked down the hallway where Barrow gave him piggy back rides when he was small.

And here was Barrow's office, where he hopefully wouldn't be yelled at.

This time Barrow spoke first. "Come in Mr. Crawley, and close the door." He looked almost as if he'd been waiting for him.

George did as he was told. "I'm sorry Mr. Barrow. I didn't mean to..."

"George I want you to listen to me. Never be ashamed of who you are. Never try to change yourself. But people like us—granted it's getting better—but people like us have to be careful. Especially people in your position."

"Barrow..."

"I don't want you getting hurt. And I don't want you hurting yourself," he fiddled with his shirt sleeve. "But I want you to realize that for much of your life you will have to hide, if you are the way I am."

I know. Of course I know. I know the law. I've heard what people say at school.

Thomas looked at him intently. "But that doesn't mean you can't be happy. It doesn't mean you don't deserve happiness and love and friendship. You deserve all of that and more Mr. Crawley."

"I know," he replied, and he surprised even himself when he said it. "I know because of you," he clarified.

Mr. Barrow didn't say anything. It was a silence that meant something, though George couldn't quite grasp its significance.

"Your mother will be looking for you," he said at last.

"Of course. Thank you Mr. Barrow."

Snow was starting to fall. George watched Tiaa as she ran across the grass. The ground and her fur were soon dusted with white. George pulled his scarf tighter around his neck, pulling it up over his nose. It was close to freeing watching her run across the earth like that, limitless and quick, tongue hanging out the side of her mouth, and eyes wild. He wished he could run like that.

"Are you all packed?" His mother came up behind him. She too looked out to the dog and smiled slightly.

"I'm so glad you and your friend could come back for the holiday."

"Me too Mama. Thank you for letting Ernest come," he replied. He never  knew what to say to her more than please and thank you and I'm doing well in school. She hadn't watched him grow up. He hadn't gotten to know her. And now every interaction seemed like catch up. George knew this was common in households like Downton but he'd never understood it. Even Sybbie's father seemed to spend more time with her than George's parents ever did. Certainly it wasn't out of lack of love, only custom, but it was odd to be so separated from those who had given you everything.

"It has been a joy to have him. He's a lovely boy."

George stopped himself before he could say anything more about how much he liked Ernest. He sucked in a breath. The air was cold in his lungs.

"Mama, do you like Mr. Barrow?"

Her dark eyebrows arched over her eyes. "I think Mr. Barrow is a fine butler," she said simply, then thought a moment. "When I was young I was very close with our butler Mr. Carson. I still consider him family. I'm glad you have something similar with Mr. Barrow. Though he used to be quite the troublemaker."

"Barrow?" George asked, shocked.

She smiled. "When he was a footman he was always up to something. He nearly got himself fired on several occasions."

George tried to imagine Barrow stirring up trouble: gossiping in the servant's hall, saying quick witted and malicious things. It didn't seem like the Barrow he knew. George thought about what Barrow had said that day with the gramophone.  _ The house knows _ . So his mother knew about Mr. Barrow. What did she think? Certainly she hadn’t demanded he be thrown out. And Barrow wasn’t in jail. But maybe it was all Grandfather’s choice and she didn’t have any say. Maybe she yelled horrible things about him when she found out. Maybe she wouldn’t go near him at first. In the end Barrow was the butler. He didn’t have a place at the table or gifts under the Christmas tree. In the end it didn’t matter how his mother felt about Barrow being the way he was, it would be entirely different with him because he was her son.

***

George was ringing. Harry, his valet, had already been up to dress him, so he was ringing for Barrow. 

“Master Crawley?”

“Oh good Barrow, you’re here,” George looked up from his book. The 19 year old had horn rimmed glasses that hid his blue eyes but didn’t calm the intensity of his expression. He was sitting cross legged and barefoot on his bedroom floor (despite the recently polished pair of shoes by the door and unoccupied velvet loveseat.) His blonde hair was slicked back in the current style yet a stray piece of it drooped over his forehead. He was in a gray vest and white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. His tie matched his eyes and was pulled loose around his neck. Thomas couldn’t help but smile at George and the recklessness of his youth. 

George Crawley was in love with Cary Grant. (He’d seen  _ Bringing Up Baby  _ three times in the theater.) He read Oscar Wilde novels and Shakespeare plays voraciously. He was a romantic, and now in the months before he was to head away from Downton and off to university he fancied himself a writer.

“I wanted to ask you,” he got up and retrieved a thick envelope from his desk. “If you might read something for me Mr. Barrow.” He handed him the envelope with a self-conscious smile.

“Master Crawley…”

“It’s the first thing I’ve written. And I trust your opinion more than anyone’s,” George interrupted, rocking on his heels and looking anywhere but Barrow’s eyes. “My mates at school say that writing stories is pointless with a war on. They’re right, I guess. But everything seems pointless when there’s a war.”

Thomas looked down at the envelope in his hands.

“In any case I wrote it so you could read Mr. Barrow,” he looked up now and grinned.

He seemed so much like his father sometimes in his kind smiles and quick witted comebacks. He’d seen Lady Mary speechless before when young George argued with her with the same ferocity and thinly veiled affection that Mr. Matthew Crawley had shown her in his first weeks at Downton. George was just as quick to forgive and sacrifice and love as his father had been. He looked like him in seriousness, reading his books in the study, and in softness, indulging Sybbie’s constant stream of stories when she returned from a trip to America or Ireland with her father. 

“And I wanted to say goodbye,” George was saying, running a hand through his hair. 

“What do you mean by goodbye Master Crawley?” He asked. George wasn’t returning to school for several weeks. 

George rolled back his shoulders, bracing himself. “I’m enlisting,” he said. He didn’t wait for Barrow to speak before he launched into an explanation. “Don’t say I can’t. My father served in the Great War. He nearly gave his life for the cause. And I want to be like him, in some way, since I never got to know him, Mr. Barrow. And Ernest is enlisting too, before he gets drafted. He’s not going to school right away because of his mother’s illness and his family’s financials. I’m not supposed to talk about it but I know you won’t say anything. He’s not going to school so he’s enlisting to stay respectable. I’ll be fine.  _ We’ll  _ be fine.”

Thomas gripped the envelope tightly. “Master Crawley, I can’t keep this from…”

“I’m telling Mama tonight. And if she won’t let me leave I’ll find a way.” 

“George…”

George was turning back to his desk and collecting his papers. He wasn’t listening. 

“Really, it’s fine. I just wanted to let you know.”

“George, stop interrupting and listen to me,” Thomas snapped.

George stopped. He looked back at him with wide, naive eyes.

“With all due respect Master Crawley, you don’t know a thing about war. You don’t know whether or not you’ll be fine. If you aren’t injured, or god forbid killed, everything will be different George. You won’t be just fine.”

“Were you…” Now George was at a loss for words. “Were you in the war too Mr. Barrow?”

Thomas sucked in a breath. He didn’t think he’d be talking about this, not now, not with him. 

“I was. I served in the trenches, with your father for a time, George.”

George’s jaw tightened, visibly. 

“I was young and I was afraid. I did things I’m not proud of.”

“But you came home.”

“Because of an injury, George,” he said slowly. “I couldn’t fight, but I served as a medic. I worked with your aunt, serving patients housed at Downton.”

George shook his head. “I didn’t know they cared for soldiers at Downton. No one tells me a thing Mr. Barrow. That’s why I need to enlist. I need to experience the things you did in your youth. I know it was terrible.”  _ He didn’t know a thing.  _ “I know men came back shell shocked and with friends dead but...but at least they got to feel something. Something real, I mean. Not like me. I don’t think I know anything real. I’m beginning to think I don’t know  _ you  _ at all Mr. Barrow. And if I don’t know you then who in God’s name  _ do  _ I know?”

He was babbling now, and pacing in tight loops with the wall and his bed at either end. For a moment he reminded Thomas more of himself than of Mr. Matthew Crawley. George hadn’t picked up his smoking habit, but the anxiety, the sour expression, and the restless pacing reminded him of his time brooding in the alley, talking to himself or O’Brien and getting nowhere. 

“Master Crawley.”

George stopped and looked up, expression desperate and confused. Thomas removed his glove and held out his scarred hand for George to see. The scars had faded and warped over time. His hand still ached and cramped with too frequent use. Distance did not erase the past.

“Is that? How did you…?”

“You don’t know who I was then, but you know who I am now. You don’t know the pain of the past. You don’t know the horror of war, Master Crawley, and even for all you say, of experience, of reality, I do not want you to know what I know of it.”

“I can’t just hide, or run away to school. Not now, not when Ernest doesn’t have the means to.”

“I don’t expect I’ll change your mind, George.”

George sighed. “Thank you Mr. Barrow, but you won’t. I hope you’ll still read my writing? And any letters I can send you?”

“Of course, Master Crawley.”

“I know you feel you have to say that, out of service to my family, but I don’t care. I’m glad all the same.” He adjusted his glasses self-consciously. “Maybe that’s selfish of me. No, it’s certainly selfish of me.

Thomas smiled at him fondly. He was rather glad George had ended up the way he had, insecurities and all, and not arrogant and narrow-minded. 

“I look forward to your letters, George,” he said sincerely. 

***

15 May 1940

Dear Mr. Barrow,

I’ve made it to basic training. I suppose I was lucky enough to make it out of Downton at all. I hope Mama isn’t still angry. I know, deep down, that she understands. I know she worries because of what happened to my father.

She has nothing to worry about with me though. We haven’t seen any action. Some of the other boys are itching for it. Ernest is restless. He’s always restless, so that isn’t saying much. I’m trying to think about what you said. I’m trying to remember the horror and be thankful for this boredom. 

I hope the house is okay. I hope you’re doing well Mr. Barrow. I know you’ll write me all about my upstairs family and everyone downstairs apart from yourself, but I wish that you’d tell me something about you. Tell me a story about the old days Mr. Barrow. It doesn’t have to be a good story or a happy story. I just want to  _ really  _ hear from you. 

All the best, 

Private George R. Crawley

20 May 1940

Dear Master Crawley,

Lady Mary is sad at your absence but understanding in your desire to prove yourself. I’m sure she has written you and I trust you’ve written her back promptly.

Miss Sybbie has begun a fundraising campaign to aid in the purchase of war bonds, though, like her mother, she is feeling the pull of medical service opportunities. She is set to begin an internship at the local hospital any day now. For both your sake I hope your paths don’t cross. 

The house is in fine shape, as usual. We have yet to feel the impact of atrocities next door. Forgive me for my grim nature, but I worry for you terribly. I hope this war is finished and they send you home before you see any action, Ernest’s restlessness be damned. 

As for a story, I’m afraid I have none suitable for paper. Maybe one day soon I’ll have reason to tell you something of my past. 

Warmly, 

Thomas Barrow

8 June 1940

Dear Mr. Barrow,

I’m sorry it has taken me so long to write back to you, but I’m sure you know why. I long for the restless days now, as do many of the men I’ve met here. 

I am unhurt. Miraculous as it seems with all the blood and deafening gunfire and friends abandoned in the chaos. I understand why you never spoke of the Great War before I coaxed the details out of you. I barely have the stomach to write about the things I’ve seen, and I know others have had it much worse. 

Ernest and I have been separated. He has been sent to Belgium, but he writes me. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to be here in the first place. I think he’s angry I’ve followed him to war when he never asked me. Don’t worry, we keep the names vague in our letters in case they fall into the wrong hands. I’m more cautious than you give me credit for Mr. Barrow. 

All the best, 

Private George R. Crawley 

10 June 1940

My dearest, 

I wait anxiously for news of you every chance I get. I hope you’ll write me back. I pray you are safe and well. My body is intact, if not my wits. 

I keep returning to our school days in my mind. Before I knew you returned my feelings I would steal looks at you across the dining hall. Of course soon you sat beside me and it was harder to look without being caught. Did you ever catch me? Did you pretend you didn’t notice how I stared at your smile and your shifty eyes and every way you stood out and rebelled? I think about you when everything else is too hard to think about. I think about your holiday with me at Downton when I feel hopeless. Someday we’ll have that again. It won’t be the same, but it will be enough. 

Please write me. 

Yours,

G.

14 June 1940

Dear Master Crawley,

I don’t know how to begin. I’ve started this letter ten different times, and every time it feels wrong. The house is so worried, George. I’m worried. Every day I hope for a letter from you. 

I’ve read your story. Actually I’ve read it ten times. I read it over again when I can’t sleep. I think you write beautifully, but what do I know? 

If I could’ve had a son, I’d want a son like you. Come home safe. 

Warmly,

Thomas Barrow. 

“Do you want me to put that out with the rest of the mail Mr. Barrow?” Richard, the footman, knocked on the door. “Is it a letter to Master Crawley?”

“Thank you Richard but I’m not sending it at the moment,” Thomas replied, crumpling his latest letter draft. Some things couldn’t be said for distance or bravery or social station. 

“Does he tell you things the house doesn’t know Mr. Barrow?” Richard asked. He was young and nosy and so far had been saved from the draft. “I know you and Master Crawley are close.” 

“Get to the kitchen Richard, dinner’s starting soon,” Thomas said dismissively. 

“Well I hope someone is sending him pin up girl mags,” Richard laughed brashly. “Or caviar.”

“Kitchen, Richard,” Thomas said sharply.

George's writing was quite good, not that Thomas knew much in the way of literature. In his fiction young people were brave and loyal and sacrificed themselves for love. His letters were beautiful too, honest and emotional and smart in bold ways. 

Thomas began another letter. 

Dear George, 

Stay safe. 

Love, 

Barrow 

He couldn’t send that letter either. 

13 December 1942

My love,

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I don’t write like you do. I’m sorry I can’t find the words. I’m sorry we’re separated. I’m sorry it has taken me so long to tell you this. 

They’re sending me home. My injuries have gotten worse and I’m a waste of a cot. My leg is mostly lame. No more track races, I’m afraid. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I have to leave you like this. I miss you. I love you so much it hurts when I think of the distance between us. And the distance will be greater now. 

I dream about our school days too. You’re so smart, smarter than me even, and twice as rebellious no matter what you say. I may have kissed you first but you’re the real romantic. You’re the daring, unapologetic romantic of the two of us. 

Be safe. 

Please be safe. 

Yours, 

E.

5 September 1944

Dear Mr. Barrow,

I’m coming home this week. I’ll probably arrive before this letter does. In any case I want you to know that I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was ignorant and blind and that I never listen to you the way I should. 

I look up to you Mr. Barrow. I hope you know that already, but if you don’t here it is. If I’ve learned anything in this hell it’s that you need to say what you mean and how you feel quickly, before you lose your chance. 

I’m visiting Ernest before I come home. I have some things to tell him too. 

I can’t wait to see you and Mama and Papa and Sybbie and the whole house. Everything will be different, but I will be home at Downton. Maybe that will be enough. 

Fondly, 

George

***

He didn’t know what he’d expected. Ernest’s mother answered the door when he arrived at their modest estate. She offered him tea, and when he politely declined she left them alone. George met him in the living room. Ernest stood when he arrived, with difficulty. He had a cane. 

He didn’t look like the schoolboy he’d left. Then again neither did George. Ernest’s eyes were sunken. He was paler and thinner and his hands shook when he smoked. His hair was overgrown, and he looked as if he hadn’t shaved in awhile. He still grinned when he saw George in the doorway. They met partway, just past the coffee table, and Ernest wrapped him up in the tightest hug. They stayed like that for awhile. For once George didn’t want to talk. He’d planned what he’d wanted to say in his head. He’d scrawled his plans on notebook paper and hid them in waistcoat pockets. He just held on and breathed in Ernest: pine and sweat and cigarettes and furniture polish. 

“I wasn’t sure I’d see you again,” George said, once they’d broken apart. 

“I’m glad you came,” Ernest replied, hand gripping his cane for dear life. 

“Do you want to sit down?” 

“No, I’m always sitting now.” He didn’t break their gaze. George felt like he was being studied. 

“Are you alright?”

“Are you?”

“I missed you, you absolute ass,” George grinned. He wanted to kiss him, even with Ernest’s mother in the next room he wanted to.

“I’m alive,” Ernest said. He leaned into his cane. “I can’t get much work, but I’ve got my wages from the army, and we have the rest of the estate until I can find something I can still do with my bum leg.”

“If you need any help I can…”

“I don’t. Thank you for offering, but we really are going to be fine.”

George nodded. He looked at his shoes. 

“You’re going back to Downton then?”

“For the time being. I expect Mama will want me to get married now that I’m out of the service.” 

“Oh,” Ernest’s eyes were soft with fondness and disappointment. It was something inevitable, and something that needed to be said here. They couldn’t be the schoolboys they were forever. The distance, the time, the risk of it all was a weight. 

“Maybe I’ll upset them all and stay a bachelor forever,” George said. He reached out and took Ernest’s free hand. It was calloused and dry. He held on tight. 

“Once a rebel, always a rebel.”

George smiled. “I’ll stay in touch, of course. You’ll come back to Downtown?”

“To see that charming butler of yours, naturally.” 

“I’m more charming than Barrow.” 

“Of course you are, George.”

They stared at each other for a moment and then George leaned in to kiss him. It was supposed to be a peck, something quick and soft, but Ernest kissed him back and clung to George’s side to support himself. It became a goodbye kiss: a kiss to say goodbye to the boys they had been, to the trivialities they’d abandoned, to the tracks they’d run around in the sunshine, the desserts they’d snuck from the dining hall, and to the cigarettes in the rain. George felt flushed and teary when they broke apart. 

“Thank you for being my friend,” George said. “For being more, too, but I think you were my first real friend, the first friend I made all on my own. I’m lucky it was you.”

“I’ll see you, George,” Ernest said. “No matter what happens I’ll see you again.”

“Okay,” George said. And he promised to write and to have Ernest and his mother come to Downton for a visit. Neither of them promised that things between them would return to the way they were. But that was okay. 

***

It took George awhile to get back downstairs. Sybbie hugged him and cried for what seemed like hours even though he repeatedly assured her that he was fine. She explained that she was off to London to do more nursing work and needed to fully assess that her cousin was unharmed before she had to leave him. 

Sybbie had grown up. Her face was lined with worry at times but she still smiled with the same hopeful lightness. She still teased him, but her jokes were gentler now, as if she was testing the water. He might be too fragile for old jokes. 

“When I get back we’ll have music, and walks in town with Tiaa,” she said, smiling. 

Mama and Papa were similarly elated, yet tread carefully around him. When he asked for some alone time to get settled they easily obliged. He made his way downstairs and directly to Barrow’s office.

He hesitated before he knocked; some things never changed.

“Come in, George,” Mr. Barrow said. 

Mr. Barrow stood up to meet him. He crossed the floor and met him a few steps from the doorway. He hugged him before George had the chance to speak. 

“Mr. Barrow,” he muttered. He hugged him back cautiously. “I’m okay. It’s all okay.”

When he pulled away George could see he was crying. Something about that made his chest feel warm and full. He wondered if he’d gotten his last letter.

“You’re as bad as Sybbie,” George said, with a smile. 

“Welcome home, Master Crawley,” Barrow said, righting himself. George thought of how many times their roles had been reversed, how many times George had been the one crying or at a loss for words. 

“It’s good to be home. Though I don’t know what I’ll do now. Write maybe, though I don’t think I’ve ever been quite as good at that as I think I am.”

“I think you’re good,” Barrow said. He smiled. “And I mean that, really, as a friend.” 

“A friend?” George replied, face feeling hot, mouth stretched wide in a grin. 

“Of course,” Mr. Barrow said. “Always.”


End file.
